Coffee Fix
by webdlfan
Summary: A little, fluffy one-shot. Lindsay and Danny share a moment over coffee.


_Not my characters...just something that accidentally came out of me a few days ago. I was going to save it for the upcoming famine when the show starts (rolls eyes), but well, here it is. This will make Ten the 10th story finished--so I thought why not put it up. Not sure if I got their "voices" right, so let me know how to fix it if you can think of something better ... or just leave a review! Enjoy!_

* * *

**Coffee Fix**

_**He was my cream, and I was his coffee -  
And when you poured us together, it was something.**  
_

Josephine Baker

Lindsay sat alone at a small coffee table at the busy coffee shop, staring out the window as the light of the morning filtered across New York City. People had long been up long before she made her way downtown. They moved quickly past the window, without really looking at anything, just heading toward or away from something.

She'd brought one foot up on the seat with her and rested her arm on the bent knee. She held her coffee and let the scent wash through her as she watched the people around her.

The café was crowded as people hurried in and out, the ones who stopped in regulars. Funny, she was a regular, but she didn't really know them. They'd never stopped to exchange names or laugh at the same jokes. She'd known the names of all the regulars back home. It was rare that anyone had a new joke, or story, but they were constantly telling them. It was part of life.

It didn't really make her homesick. She really liked that even when she saw the same faces, she would never really see the same things, moods, or feel like she was constantly walking in memories. But she did wonder if her heart would ever really be at home without that connection to the familiar.

There were two older women in the back. They were here every Thursday morning, and a business man who always stopped in to read the paper. Then there were the college students who came in to study, and the police men who were grabbing a quick coffee.

She didn't even know them.

Then there was the man, maybe a struggling actor or college student, who wore old jeans and a Chelsea sweatshirt. He glanced at his watch, obviously waiting for someone. She smiled a little at the flowers that sat on the table and at the way his foot tapped impatiently. Hopefully whoever he was waiting for would come soon.

Of course, not everyone was just getting up, some were headed home. New York was really the city that never slept. And why would you? There was always something to do. Something or someone different to see.

Early mornings in Montana were like waking up. The town seemed to stretch itself and let out a sigh as if it had just roused from a long night's sleep. People meandered into town, at various intervals.

But regular, practiced, almost traditional moments. When she went home, even after having spent awhile in Bozeman, she knew when she was up early when she beat Old Man Roe to town. She knew it was lunchtime when Benny Jr. closed his father's old barber shop. People worked like clockwork, and she knew them, she knew their names. She knew every cop, every store owner, every friend of everyone else.

She stopped before she missed it, and focused on the city around her. One would think it was hard for her to miss home when she was surrounded my so much. But sometimes, it just rolled over her.

Then she smiled a little as she watched one such person who had gotten very little sleep the night before. His hair was a mess, his shirt untucked, a beat-up leather jacket over it. As he walked passed, he tapped on the window glass and smiled at her.

She lifted her eyes and smiled back, even as he passed by. He walked with a mixture of confidence and as if he was missing something. Restless, maybe even a little edgy. Like so many other native New Yorkers that had yet to shed that part of themselves for a more refined, styled look.

"Montana," he said in his rough, tired voice as he came up behind her. She looked up at him and smiled just in time for him to drop a swift kiss on her lips.

"My knight in shining armor," he sat across from her and picked up his cup of coffee.

"Dame."

"What?" he blinked as he took a sip, his glasses slightly off kilter. He reached up to straighten them.

"Dame. When women are knighted, they're … dame-_d_, aren't they?"

"But you would still be a knight," he pointed out. "You'd be Dame Monroe."

She grinned at him and pointed to his coffee cup. "Even still, if you'd been much later, I wouldn't have been able to save that coffee from an untimely death."

"You mean you can't just hold it in your hands and warm it up?"

"What?"

"You just …" A look of absolute horror crossed his face. "_Nothing._"

"Nothing what?"

"Just … I was just thinking that … when I hold your hands, they're warm … really warm," he laughed at himself even has he said it.

"You're blushing," Lindsay sputtered, nearly losing the coffee she'd just sipped. She swallowed, her lips brimming into a huge grin. "Danny Messer doesn't blush. Why would you be blushing—"

"Must be the sudden shock of caffeine," he shook his head and took another sip of coffee. "And lack of sleep."

"You're serious? You're saying when you touch me it's like a spark or heat or something?"

"I'm not saying anything."

"Oh, don't take it back. That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," and as sweet as the comment was, she was more interested in his reaction to it. Obviously uncomfortable with himself.

He could be sweet sometimes, gentle more often than not, but he never, ever voiced it in such a revealing way. He had his moments. He knew her struggles, somehow knew when she needed that touch or for him to hold on, but he wasn't one to voice it. Though emotions were easy for him, words were not. She doubted they were easy to say for anyone in his family.

Neither had it been that way for her family. Her mother and father loved each other, but they were quiet about it. Her mother said that her father had brought her flowers one time, from a field, on his way back from checking the stock.

Then her friends had been murdered, and words couldn't be bottled up. She'd wanted her family to know how she felt. She hated that her friends hadn't.

Lindsay glanced over at the table with the man and his flowers and smiled a little when she realized his girl had come in. They sat across from each other at the small table, his hand over hers, and talked, their eyes so focused on each other.

She looked at Danny and simply shook her head. "I won't tell anyone."

He'd lost the blush, and leaned back in his seat to grin at her. "They wouldn't believe you anyway."

At the raising of voices, they both looked over to the table where the man had brought flowers, just in time to see the girl pick up the flowers and hit him over the head with them before walking out. He stared after her as she walked out.

"Well," Danny leaned back and propped his elbows on the table. "Guess that's a lesson learned. No flowers."

"That better not mean for me."

"You want flowers, Montana?"

"I want what you want to give me," she shrugged, "but flowers are always nice."

He reached across the table and took her hand so her could play with her fingers, even as he gave her a doubtful look. "They die."

"They're pretty."

"Until they wilt. They remind me of funerals."

She rolled her eyes, and knew better than to jump in with weddings. "Or spring time."

"Impractical," he continued, but he was grinning.

"Sweet," she countered.

"A guy who walks around carrying flowers just has his heart on his sleeve."

"And why wouldn't you want others to know?"

"Ahh … I was just speaking metaphorically …" he glanced at his watch and stood up. "You're going to be late to work."

"You're retreating."

"To fight—or ah, to live on another day …" he leaned down and dropped another kiss on her grinning lips. "Thanks for the coffee, Montana."

As she gathered her bag, she watched him walk out, coffee cup in hand. On her way out, she turned and looked at the table where the discarded flowers still lay. Then she rolled her eyes. Maybe he wouldn't bring her flowers, maybe he wouldn't do it often, but he had other better qualities.

Besides, he'd given her a single flower once; a daisy, in a glass of water. And that show of affection was better than a whole bouquet.

Coffee in hand, she opened the door, slid out into the movement of people and joined their pace.

Feeling at home.


End file.
